The Consulting Pirate
by HotCrossPigeon
Summary: Sherlock finds himself feverish and under the ridiculous delusion that he is a pirate. Oneshot. Excessive Sherlock whump. A side order of caring, bemused John. And a seemingly unruffled Mycroft.


The Consulting Pirate.

_Sherlock is feverish and under the ridiculous delusion that he is a pirate. Oneshot. Excessive Sherlock whump. A side order of caring, bemused John. And a seemingly unruffled Mycroft. This is my first delve into the Sherlock universe, I hope I do it justice. Enjoy._

…

…

Dr John Watson trudged up the stairs to the flat he shared with the infamous detective, exhaustedly, barely making it in through the door before he collapsed on the sofa.

"Sherlock?" he called out tiredly, knowing his friend had been meaning to stay in today for some reason. He had merely grunted when John had asked him what his plans were for the afternoon, he had looked as though he had been up all night. Which was probably about right, did that man ever sleep? His face had been haggard and his dark hair had stuck up in all manner of unholy directions. In other words, pretty much how he always looked when he hadn't had a case in a while.

"Sherlock?" He called out again, shaking his head at the lack of a response. Must finally be in bed. Oh no, wait. There was some noise coming from the bathroom, John pricked his ears up a little, in case there had been something more sinister to glean from the way Sherlock had looked this morning, and John had been too distracted by his lateness to catch it. That tit never took care of himself properly. He stood up, still listening for any sign that his flatmate was still among the living, but also intent on putting the kettle on.

From the splashing sounds, John deduced that Sherlock was not throwing up, not having a seizure, and not dead, and he was in fact lounging around in the bath too lazy to give a reply. He probably thought that John should already know where he was, it was a tedious deduction. So easy even his funny little brains could work it out.

John shook his head again, trying to get rid of the voice in his head. The last thing he needed was Sherlock inside his head, he had gotten everywhere else. The kitchen was full of his experiments, the fridge full of body parts, and even his bedroom wasn't safe from Sherlock's presence anymore, he would often open the door without knocking and drag John bodily from bed. Sometimes with good reason, such as a bomb being planted in the living room, other times with no reason at all other than the fact that he was so mind-numbingly bored that he needed a distraction and wanted John to play scrabble to pass the time before the next triple-homicide.

Mental note, never play word games with Sherlock.

You might think you have him on the ropes because he agrees to your colloquialisms are allowed rule, but he will thrash you with all manner of peculiar verbs and obscure adjectives until you throw the letters at him in a huff and he smirks as if he'd only wanted to play to rile you up. And you realise that he probably had wanted to play just to rile you up, because that is precisely something that Sherlock would do, and you find yourself wishing you had stayed in bed instead of letting your flatmate walk all over you with his stupidly long feet, because you had work in the morning and dear god you were tired.

The good doctor knew Sherlock well enough to know that he wouldn't be out of that bath for another hour at least; he was notorious for loafing and lazing about the place when his mind wasn't preoccupied with an unsolved grizzly murder or string of intriguing thefts, and considering they had just finished up a rather dastardly case about a missing girl - the answer to the riddle hanging on a singular clue of the out of place crayon - John was actually grateful that the detective was taking the time to relax for once. And even more grateful that he had opted for a bath over a shower, or their water bills would be through the roof again. And Mrs Hudson would be knocking at their door looking as though she had just sucked a lemon.

John made a cup of tea, and found some spare biscuits in the cupboard. Admittedly there had been a rather questionable plastic carrier bag on top of them which seemed to contain the remnants of something which had probably been alive before Sherlock got his hands on it. However the poor thing was contained in its own atmosphere in the sealed bag, and John had come to the conclusion, with much resignation, that if he ever wanted to eat anything again in this flat he would have to accept the fact that food would be placed next to, or under, or in, all manner of grotesque and pungent experiments. He had grown used to it, and gave the biscuits a cautionary sniff before dunking one into his tea with abandon and settling on the sofa to watch the television.

Two cups of tea later and John had decided that enough was enough. With all the tea, he needed to answer the call of nature, and wasn't averse to the idea of having a shower himself. It had been a long day at work, full of crying toddlers with their anxious mothers, the sniffling masses that always smeared themselves around in the flu season, and one particularly snappy hypochondriac named Mrs Hodgson who had stripped down to her underwear in his office and tried to convince him that a small pimple on her bottom was in fact a dangerously infected mosquito bite and she was currently dying of malaria.

In short, he desperately needed to unwind, and a few cups of tea and some questionable biscuits just weren't going to cut it.

He'd allowed Sherlock his indulgence and now it was time for his own. Besides which, the aforementioned sloshing sound that had reverberated around the bathroom walls had stopped now, and John felt a small curl of worry at the thought that maybe something wasn't quite right in there. It wouldn't be the first time the detective had fallen asleep in the tub and nearly drowned himself.

John strode across the lounge, depositing his empty mug in the kitchen before knocking on the bathroom door loudly.

"Sherlock?" he called, "you decent?"

There was no reply.

"Sherlock?" another knock, just in case Sherlock was just having a nap and hadn't heard him the first time. "I'm coming in, okay? Just try and cover yourself up or something…"

He opened the door, Sherlock never locked it. He had no qualms about being seen naked, something which John would never understand, and didn't really want to.

It was not what John had been expecting.

Sherlock was sat in the tub, his long legs drawn up, and his chin resting on his slender knees. But he was fully clothed in his dark trousers, shirt and thin suit jacket and absolutely sodden through. The bath was full with what must be cold water now seeing as he had no doubt been sitting in it for quite some time. Of all the

_stupid_ -

John screwed his face up. "Uh," he said, licking his lips as he tried to rationalise what on earth Sherlock was thinking that could have led to him deciding to get into a bath fully clothed, and then proceed stay in said bath, still fully clothed, all day. As usual, he couldn't comprehend it. "What are you…? Is this an experiment? Only, I want a shower, and if you're quite done…?" He raised his eyebrows. "Would you kindly get the hell out of the bath?"

Sherlock blinked at him, somewhat languidly. And then closed his eyes, as if the very sight of John standing annoyed in the doorway was too dull to waste the effort on. "No." He said.

John let out a frustrated breath. "What are you doing in there anyway, trying to see how long it will take until you get hypothermia?"

He waited a beat, honestly wondering what explanation Sherlock would come up with.

"I'm the captain." Said the sodden detective, without opening his eyes. "And the captain has to go down with his ship."

It was then that John realised he wasn't in fact having a conversation with the lucid and brilliant Sherlock Holmes, and something was actually quite wrong indeed. He should have noticed it sooner, but none of the events that occurred in 221b Baker Street could ever be considered normal, and finding Sherlock fully clothed in a bath was hardly the oddest thing he'd seen during his occupancy here. Everything Sherlock did tended to have a rational explanation, although it may not seem that way at the time, in the end it usually made frighteningly perfect sense.

There are exceptions to the rule of course, there was that one time when he had found his flatmate stark bollock naked prancing around the kitchen insisting on slathering himself with mango pulp. John had, quite rightly, not wanted to know what the reasoning behind such an act was, and had gone to the pub to hopefully forget about his friend's peculiarities and engage with some normality for once. After a few drinks and an unsuccessful attempt at seducing a pretty lady, he wandered back home and realised that perhaps this was not just one of Sherlock's peculiarities at all, and it was, in fact, a bit not good.

Later, it was discovered that Sherlock had unwillingly partaken in some hallucinogenic chemicals that he had unwittingly released into the kitchen when he'd burned some mysterious substance found at a crime scene over the hob while he was attempting to make a cup of tea.

"How was I supposed to know what it was?" Sherlock had complained loudly, as they sat together on the bright plastic chairs in A&E, him in a hospital-issue hypothermia blanket and shuddering from withdrawal, and John in a half-guilty half-annoyed huddle. Both miserable.

"Because you're the bloody genius that's why! Honestly, you must have realised that burning suspicious substances and breathing in their toxic fumes was a bad idea?"

"Well," Sherlock had said, somewhat smugly, and John had the distinct impression that Sherlock had known exactly what he had been doing and gone through with it anyway, "I think you'll find that I've solved that string of murders now. Ingenious. You see the killer -"

"I don't _care_ about the killer! You nearly killed _yourself_!"

Sherlock sniffed, affronted. "I would hardly call smothering myself with fruit pulp, 'nearly killing myself.'"

"You were having dangerous hallucinations and tried to scalp me when I got home from the pub."

Sherlock waved him off, "You didn't smell right. It's not my fault that in my weakened state I mistook you for a cannibalistic island dweller. Really, John. Next time you indulge in alcoholic pursuits you should stick to your usual beverage of choice, instead of trying to impress short brown-haired opticians on work parties by drinking hard spirits. Besides," he almost pouted, "you came home earlier in the day, found me a little bit indisposed, and then decided to leave. The predicament of my near-scalping you could have been avoided if you had noticed something was wrong in the first place."

"I did!" John had exclaimed, "But it's pretty hard to know the difference between a Sherlock Holmes high on his own experimental genius and a Sherlock Holmes who has overdosed on hallucinogenic drugs!"

"Well, perhaps you need to improve your deductive reasoning." Said Sherlock, as if it was no fault of his own.

To which John had sunk his head into his hands and groaned. And, annoyed beyond all reason, he came to the conclusion that Sherlock was right in his own ridiculous way, and resolved to keep a closer eye on his flatmate from then on.

And it seemed that he really should have come straight to the bathroom to see if something was wrong, because that idiot really couldn't look after himself at all.

"Did you just say Captain?" John said, standing in the doorway and trying his best to deduce all he could from the huddled form of his best friend.

"Yes." Said Sherlock. "Captain. _Pirate_ Captain. Are you deaf, or just stupid? If I'm going to have to keep repeating myself than you had better leave, I never did like talking to fish anyway. Dull. Repetitive. Terrible conversationalists."

John blinked, eyebrows raised so far they could have gotten lost in his hairline. "Fish. Right." He cleared his throat. "Uh, Sherlock, it's me, it's _John_. You know, your flatmate? The one with the tiny insignificant brain? Are you all right?" he settled for asking, coming forward and placing a careful hand on Sherlock's forehead to gage his temperature.

Fever. Delirious.

"Don't touch me, I've got scurvy." Was the curt reply. Sherlock's pale eyes snapped open and he scooted down the length of the bath where the taps were, making the water slosh around his sopping trousers. "Oranges and lemons sing the bells of St Clemens."

John took in the flushed cheeks and sweat on his friend's brow and almost panicked.

Almost.

And then he realised that he was a doctor and, really, a damn good one, and Sherlock, however unwittingly, was in an excellent position to lower that fever now that he was in the bath. Although perhaps not with water this cold. He reached for the taps behind Sherlock's back and turned the warm one on. Sitting in a bath of room temperature water was as good as he could manage at the moment to help bring the fever down.

Sherlock didn't realise for a few moments what John had done. And then he paled and drew his mouth into a sad frown. "The water's getting in," he mumbled, watching the water level rise up the sides' of the tub and lamenting. "We'll all be drowned soon. Blasted cannons ripped through the starboard side, we're listing… Listing…."

"Sherlock," said John loudly and clearly, trying to gain his - quite bloody _bonkers_ - friend's attention, "Listen to me. You're running a high fever, and it's quite likely that you're suffering hallucinations. Influenza is the likely culprit, seeing as you're sounding pretty bunged up. You're in the bath. You're not going to drown." He frowned closing his eyes for a second, not actually believing that he had to explain something this simple and utterly ridiculous to the Great Sherlock Holmes. "You," he said, "are _not_ a pirate. You hear me?"

Sherlock snickered, and rolled his eyes as if it was obvious. "Of _course_ I'm not a pirate." John's shoulders slumped in relief. "I'm a _privateer_ now," Sherlock continued, flapping his long limbs in the water, and splashing John's cream jumper with cold water, "a _Consulting _Pirate."

Well that was just… great. Fan-bloody-tastic.

It would have been hilarious, if he wasn't so worried. In hindsight it probably would be hilarious, absolutely bloody hilarious. If he could just get Sherlock out of the damn bath and fill him full of medication and bundle him into his bed doped up to his eyeballs, then he would probably hysterically giggle himself to sleep at the thought of Sherlock wearing an eye patch instead of a nicotine patch and growling the word 'Arrrgghhh' at people instead of his usual bafflingly elegant terminology.

Bloody hilarious. He let out a small chuckle, an then collected himself. Sherlock gazed at him as if he'd grown an extra head. Muttering something about fish and their tiny water-logged craniums.

John got a hold of himself, because while his flatmate might be, possibly, the most annoying, utterly hopeless and self-absorbed flatmate in the known universe, he was _his_ annoying, utterly hopeless and self-absorbed flatmate. And really, he should save the laughter for later, when Sherlock had been properly diagnosed and not in immediate danger.

John thought for a few frantic moments, going over his options, and which ones were less likely to make Sherlock mad in the long run when he finally snapped out of his hallucinations and had to deal with the aftermath. At the very least, John should select an option where Sherlock's anger could be directed to something or someone else should the need arise, someone who could handle the brunt of Sherlock's embarrassed rage and who on some occasions even challenged it.

He flipped his phone open and called Mycroft.

The man answered on the second ring, with barely concealed annoyance. "What has he done now?"

Having rehearsed what he was going to say, John was a little put out at the question. "Ah, well, he's uh – he's in the bath. Feverish. And he's convinced he's a pirate."

"I see." Said Mycroft, as if John had remarked casually about the weather and not about his little brother who was currently drenched and maniacal, curled up in a bathtub like an eel. "I must confess that I suspected such an occurrence, it is flu season and he has forgotten to wear his gloves lately. I wouldn't worry too much about the piracy; he outgrew that a while ago. Probably just reminiscing in that ridiculous mind palace of his. I'll be there shortly, Doctor Watson. In the mean time, I'm sure you can handle him."

A dial tone.

John pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. He'd bloody hung up. Then he looked to his flatmate who was now humming _a pirate's life for me _under his breath and shivering so much that the water around him was rippling in disturbance.

He groaned loudly at his misfortune, the sound echoing off the walls of the small bathroom. Sherlock covered his ears and muttered something about the mating call of the humpback whale. John honestly didn't know whether to be offended or not.

…

He met Mycroft at the door. The man looked impeccable as always, completely unruffled in his immaculate three piece suit, with his umbrella deftly tucked in the crook of his arm.

"After you," he said calmly, and John led the way to the bathroom, pushing open the door and revealing a shuddering, soaking Sherlock Holmes, sat in a bathtub up to the waist in cold water. Sherlock had long since turned the taps off, looking extremely pleased that he had managed to plug up the leak in his sinking ship and John hadn't managed to turn them back on again without facing Sherlock's feverish wrath or risking the bathtub overflowing as Sherlock splashed angrily about. In short, Sherlock was a near-hypothermic mess.

Mycroft refrained from looking surprised, he merely sighed.

John thought he should try and explain the situation a little but couldn't think of much to say. "He still thinks he's a pirate." He managed, a little apologetically. Though what he was apologising for he didn't really know. It just sort of seemed the thing to do.

"Privateer." Snapped Sherlock, annoyed at the inaccuracy. Well, at least something about his personality was recognisable.

"Well, Sherlock," said Mycroft in that sickly, placating tone that he often adopted when dealing with someone of mediocre intelligence, which to him was everyone and so he used it quite liberally. John had never heard his voice without the underlying patronising smoothness. "You've certainly got yourself into a pickle, haven't you? You needn't fear though, the life boat has arrived. My name is Captain Holmes -"

"No it's not," said Sherlock, squinting at him in annoyance, his pale eyes as sharp as a knife, as though he could see through the façade immediately, "that's _my_ name. Who are you? I refuse to be boarded! Lower your sword, immediately."

John blinked, taking in the unbridled anger in Sherlock's quivering frame, and then glancing at Mycroft who looked a little put out at the accusation, almost angry, before his features sank into indifference. It was rather like seeing a deadly shark emerging from a bowl of pink custard. One glimpse of its dangerously sharp teeth before it disappeared back into the harmless pink gloop as if there had been nothing there at all.

"Of course, I wouldn't dream of holding such a dangerous weapon in your presence." Mycroft said, laying his offending umbrella carefully on the tiles of the bathroom floor and looking forlornly at it as though already regretting the action. "My apologies. I'm Captain…" his quick eyes glanced around the bathroom for inspiration, settling on a bottle of shampoo in the corner behind his shivering brother. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Bubbles." He decided, and looked as though he immediately regretted that too.

John nearly snickered and wished he had thought to film all of this. No doubt when the shock had worn off, eh would be giggling about this too.

"Captain Bubbles," Mycroft repeated with a small wince, that John probably would have missed if he hadn't been scouring the elder Holmes' face for any reaction, looking for the shark he had glimpsed and wondering if he had imagined it, "and we're here to rescue you. We got your message."

Sherlock sat up now, the water clinging to his shirt, completely saturating the cotton until it was translucent and sticking like a second skin, his wan blue eyes were wide. "You found my bottle? Already? The logistics of that are highly unlikely."

Yes, thought John, it _was_ highly unlikely. Because this whole bloody thing was ludicrous.

Mycroft grimaced, and somehow turned it into a painful smile. "Nonetheless, it is the truth. How else would I know about it?" The grimace-smile turned into a sneer as Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mulling over the statement to test the validity of such a claim. His shoulders slumped in defeat, when he couldn't find a hole in the reasoning. "Now do come with me back to my ship. My cabin boy here will assist you."

There was a moment of quiet in the bathroom, where nothing but Sherlock's slightly heavy congested breathing and the sound of the tap dripping could be heard. Then John realised that the 'cabin boy' Mycroft was referring to was him.

"_Cabin boy_?" he blurted out, feeling, for some reason, thoroughly affronted at being given such a role.

Mycroft looked at him, obviously not expecting John to care what character he was given. Which he supposed was understandable. He really _shouldn't_ care what role he had to play in this weird Holmes-ian make-believe, but he still felt that he was being demeaned in some way. Though, he reminded himself, he was dealing with Mycroft who probably saw John in much the same way a child with a magnifying glass sees a soon-to-be-crispy ant.

"John," said Mycroft, eyebrows raised just a fraction, the shark about to rear its ugly head, "_please_. Get him out of that bath."

John relented.

"I'm not the cabin boy really," he found himself muttering under his breath to Sherlock as he gripped him under the armpits and hauled him out of the tepid water like a mound of dripping, sodden seaweed. "Captain Bubbles is just being a prick."

If Mycroft heard the insult he did not mention it.

Sherlock, however, _had_ heard him and nodded encouragingly. "Of _course_ you're not the cabin boy." He replied in a stage-whisper, "It would take an idiot not to realise that you're the ship's surgeon – it's your fingers that give you away, that and the way your eyes... shirt sleeve… not a fish…" he trailed off, shaking his head and trailing water all over the front of John's jumper and onto his jeans. "Skilled doctor, possibly Navy. No, no, _stupid_. Army. Odd." He screwed up his face a little, the pale nose wrinkling as if he was about to break the illusion and realise that yes, it _was_ odd for an army doctor to be on a ship. It was odd for a man in a three piece suit with an umbrella, which was most certainly not a sword, to be a Captain at all, let alone one with such an improbable name. It was odd that his ship was so small and that it distinctly resembled a bathtub. Perhaps Sherlock was beginning to realise that he was not, in fact, a Privateer stuck on a sinking ship with naught but his wits about him and nothing to save him but a cry for help written on some parchment inside a floating bottle, but he was, actually, a rather sickly detective, currently stuck in his own bathtub and wrapped in his own feverish hallucinations.

John's hope was dashed however, when Sherlock's eyes took on a dazed lacquer.

"Don't worry, doctor," he said, somewhat mischievously, and John thought he saw a glimpse of a younger Sherlock, what he could have been as a child. All bright eyes, dark curls and untameable wit that often led to childish pranks where Mycroft would wake up with his hair dyed pink and frogspawn in his bed linen. "Captain Bubbles shall be punished for his arrogance. We'll mutiny… you and me… when I…" Sherlock blinked, and then blinked again. And then turned such a frightening shade of pale that the tiles behind him almost looked yellow in comparison.

John half-carried half-dragged the saturated Sherlock Holmes out of the bath, stripping off his friend's soaked outer clothes quickly, leaving him clad only in his boxers. He wrapped a towel around his now shivering flatmate and wondered if he could rub him down to get some warmth back into him, before deciding that Sherlock would try to scupper him for touching him that way even if he _wasn't_ currently pretending to be a pirate.

"Should stay with the ship." Mumbled Sherlock, eyelids drooping.

"Don't be stupid." Said Mycroft, still keeping a safe distance away and looking as though he thought he might catch something. "Where's the logic in drowning yourself?"

"Deserve it." said Sherlock, and promptly closed his eyes where he stood and would have fallen if not for John's arm being securely looped around his waist holding him up. Which was an impressive feat, seeing that Sherlock was a good deal taller than John, however John had experience in carrying the wounded, being the skilled army doctor that he was.

"Well," sighed Mycroft, "he's out of the bath. I have done my duty, and I dare say you can handle it from here on in. I do have more important things to do than indulge in my little brother's nonsensical piratical delusions."

John found himself panicking a little at the thought that Mycroft was leaving, despite the fact that the elder Holmes hadn't done much of anything at all to help him. Probably hadn't wanted to get his suit damp. He still looked immaculate, save for the fact that his umbrella was still on the floor and being dripped on by his brother. That bastard couldn't just up and go, couldn't he see that Sherlock needed medical attention? "Wait a minute – you can't just leave! He still thinks he's a pirate for god's sake!"

"Privateer." Mycroft supplied helpfully.

"Yes! I know!" John nearly shouted, "But that doesn't explain why he's like this! Should I be worried? Does he need a hospital?"

"Mind palace." Sherlock muttered into his ear, somewhat wetly, "all jumbled."

"Ah." said Mycroft, his expression not changing one bit. John on the other hand nearly dropped Sherlock in surprise. "I see you're finally back with us? Although I'm guessing it is only a temporary arrangement seeing as your _mind palace_," his lips pulled in distaste, obviously disapproving of his brother's choice of words, "is _jumbled_."

John thought perhaps Mycroft could stand to be a tad more sympathetic, seeing as Sherlock was a shivering feverish mess right now, and barely standing. It wasn't as if he could defend himself against the snide remarks in this condition, like he could normally. John had often walked in on what he could feel was a heated discussion, judging by the palpable tension in the room, despite both brothers looking completely at ease in each other's company, a few eyebrow quirks and thinning of lips here and there, but no outward animosity.

The air around them however was positively crackling with danger and the atmosphere could have been cut with a hacksaw; it often made John retreat hastily into the kitchen under the pretence of tea-making or putting away the shopping.

Few words were spoken between the two Holmes men during these meetings, and the ones that _were_ spoken outwardly, instead of implied through their mutual death glares, were mostly blurted out derisive deductions meant to derail the other brother's thought processes, and had nothing to do with what the actual conversation was about. The way the other was standing, for example, meant he hadn't been sleeping –

"_Not for, oh, 73 hours now, is it? For goodness sake Sherlock, you must look after your body – what would mummy think? For one with such a supposedly large intellect, you can be rather incredibly stupid_."

Or what colour socks he was wearing that specified how woeful his diet had become –

"_You binged on a snickers bar at half past eight this morning. And licked the wrapped after its consumption. How undignified."_

"_You haven't eaten since Tuesday."_

"_I _have_ -"_

"_A cup of tea yesterday morning does not count."_

_A roll of the eyes. _

Or why his choice of breakfast made him intellectually inferior -

"_Eating in the morning is not a weakness, Sherlock."_

"_Of course you would say that, you binge incessantly. All that superfluous sugar goes straight to that heaving mass you call a waistline." _

"_Food contains the energy necessary to fuel your brain cells, as you well know. Perhaps my superior intellect is due to the fact that I eat a balanced diet."_

_A hand waved the remark aside. "Digestion slows me down."_

_A huff and an elegant eyebrow raising in rebuttal. "I have the cognitive capacity to realise that I need to eat to function. You, dear brother, are in denial of anything needing sustenance except your oversized head." _

_A pointed look at Mycroft's paunch. "I would rather have an oversized head than an oversized –"_

But Mycroft was chiding his brother now, when said brother was fever-ridden and probably about to collapse soon if the wobbling about on his spindly legs was anything to go by, and John found it somewhat out of character.

It seemed a cold-hearted and somewhat illogical thing to do, seeing as though John had always assumed the nature of their petty arguments was actually a sort of bizarre brotherly affection. They gauged any chinks in their armour that may be exploited by others, patching each other up by first pointing out the flaws. John saw their indomitable prying as a way to express the fact that they knew everything about each other. Other siblings did it through hugs, shared experiences, having a cup of tea together; Sherlock and Mycroft did it through mutual dislike and ritual dressing down of each other's personas. They showed they cared about one another because they bothered to look for the cracks the other tried so desperately to hide from everyone else, they expressed how well they knew each other by always being able tell when something was amiss, even if it was a miniscule detail like the crookedness of a tie or the scratch of an ear.

There was trust and there was concern, no matter how guarded and hated the emotion was, it was there nonetheless.

It was possible of course, that John was looking too much into their relationship and the Holmes brothers did in fact just despise one another.

He would have shrugged if not for Sherlock leaning on him heavily like a heavy wet coat slung on a washing line. Had he moved at all they would probably have both toppled over, back into the bath with an almighty _sploosh_!

John regarded Mycroft with a confused stare before he realised that while Mycroft may indeed act like a cold-hearted bastard at times, it was clear that he was fiercely protective of Sherlock and only ever acted in a way that would help him, whether the sullen detective liked it - or even realised it - or not.

So Mycroft was goading him, John realised. Trying to get his brother back on his feet in the only way that Sherlock would accept.

"How you get lost in your own superfluous mental concept is simply mind-boggling." Mycroft pushed.

John looked back up to Sherlock's face, and started as his friend's eyes snapped open, and he frowned hotly at his older brother with a vehemence usually directed at only the most incorrigibly stupid of people.

"Shut up," he gritted out, "Captain _Bubbles_."

John couldn't help himself, he laughed. Mycroft's blasé expression made him laugh even harder.

"Yes, yes," Mycroft said once the laughter had subsided, "it is _quite_ hilarious that I would engage in my little brother's fantasy to stop him from catching hypothermia. Most amusing."

"I didn't think you would stoop so low to indulge me," Sherlock coughed wetly, "I'm flattered. Although, you could have picked a more inventive imaginary guise."

Mycroft waved a hand at him dismissively, "Playing games was always your forte. I am much too old for make-believe."

They stared at each other now, and John got the distinct impression that he had stumbled across something rather private. He averted his gaze.

Sherlock grunted. "Oh, do go away." He snapped. "Now."

John took that as an opportunity to butt in, he cleared his throat. "Well, I'm glad you're back," he spouted, with a small smile. Because he really was happy beyond all measure that Sherlock had retrieve himself from the depths of his imaginings and was back to hurling insults rather than singing sea shanties. The world had gotten a bit too odd for a few moments there, and he thought he rather needed a nice cup of tea to sort himself out. "Thank god."

Sherlock grunted, swallowing against another cough. From this distance John could see that the tip of his nose was red, his eyes over-bright from fever. "Please refrain from acquainting my own mental strength to the work of a non-existent deity, John. It is grating."

"Are you all right?" John asked softly.

Sherlock blinked at him as if he were mad. "I have just spent the better part of an entire day under the distinct impression that I was a pirate -"

"Privateer," said John helpfully, "you were very insistent on that fact."

"Yes," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes, "I know. I was delusional, not absent. I can get a little lost in my mind palace during feverish episodes, it caught me unprepared."

A small huff from Mycroft here, he had made it clear that he regarded the very idea of getting lost in the constructs of one's own mind as blatantly ridiculous. Which for anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, it would be.

Sherlock glowered at him. "I managed to find my way out of the childhood memories room for the moment, though I cannot risk completely deleting those reminiscences from my hard drive, lest I alter my adult self."

John honestly had no idea what he was going on about, he looked to Mycroft.

"Sentiment." Explained the elder Holmes with a smirk.

John didn't know why both of the brothers said that word with such disdain in their voices, as if the very idea of being a little attached to something was utterly disgraceful. He wondered if they could see the clear attachment they had to each other. Probably not.

"You have never grown up, Sherlock, and are still obsessed with pirates; you're current occupation proves that. You even have your own cabin boy to run around behind you, cleaning up your little messes."

"Ship's surgeon," snapped Sherlock, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the chattering of his teeth, "and he's a valuable asset."

John felt a little warmth blossom in his chest.

"Oh, I wholeheartedly agree. Without him you would have most likely drowned yourself in your own bathtub." Input Mycroft with no small amount of derision.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, seemingly unconcerned about his mental state, which was worrisome on its own, because anything concerning Sherlock's brain was always of utmost importance to him, especially if it wasn't working in the correct way. John's mind flew off into the unknown. Perhaps this was a common occurrence for it not to bother Sherlock that much? Perhaps Sherlock was just trying to hide his own worry from them? Or perhaps, he just wanted to get rid of his brother.

"I can look after myself, Mycroft. And if not, then I have John." Ah, so it was most likely the latter. Sherlock swayed dangerously, but his eyes were molten, "Get _out_."

John felt a small surge of pride at the fact that Sherlock had no qualms with him staying, and maybe didn't even mind if he attempted to care for the sickly detective. Mycroft had been the right person to call after all, otherwise this unadulterated hatred may have been directed at himself instead. He felt a small curl of gratitude in his chest for the cold stoic brother standing calmly by the wall with his umbrella lying bedraggled now on the tiles.

"I said," Sherlock repeated in a low and dangerous tone, when his brother made no move to exit. "_Get. Out_."

There was a small sigh, one that could have been of disappointment more than concern. "If you're sure?"

Sherlock tucked his toes under the handle of Mycroft's umbrella and used the leverage to kick it into the air, it spun like a baton, and Sherlock caught it swiftly in his slender fingers. He brandished it out in front of him like a rapier.

"Ha! I have taken your weapon, Captain Bubbles! I _order_ you to retreat, maroon yourself on a desert island and eat nothing but coconuts for the rest of your pitiful days. It may seem a harsh punishment at first, no doubt the vitamin efficiency will cause you to lose some of you hair but you don't have much to begin with, and you could stand to lose a few pounds."

"Indeed." Said Mycroft, "As you wish." And before shutting the door curtly behind him, he regarded John with a soft, almost wistful expression that looked out of place on his usually schooled features. "When we were younger and Sherlock fell sick, he only ever used to sleep to the sound of the ocean we ha on a cassette tape that Mummy bought; I believe there are a few audio files recently installed on your laptop that should suffice to calm any other… _episodes_. Take good care of him, John."

And then he was gone, and Sherlock was stabbing the umbrella about in triumph. "The mutiny was a success! I am the new Captain, and as the new Captain, I have several decrees. First, I promote _you_ to first mate." The excitement seemed to drain out of him for a moment and he barely concealed a treacherous yawn, blinking blearily as a hand went out to steady himself and ended up fisting itself in John's soggy jumper.

"Well, that's very generous of you," John said, taking Sherlock's grasping hand and pulling his arm around his shoulders to keep him upright, "I accept the promotion, and seeing as you're the Captain," Sherlock nodded, heavy head thunking onto his chest exhaustedly, giving John just the opening he needed, "and you're somewhat… uh, _indisposed_ at the moment, that means I get to make the decisions on your behalf, until you're better," John explained, carefully. "The first being that I should take a look at you, to make sure you don't have scurvy."

"Scurvy is not good." agreed Sherlock, wobbling a bit.

"Come on, let's get to the uh, the mess, so I can take a look…"

"John… I don't feel well."

Sherlock's tone was different this time, less of the gravel he had adopted for his pirate front and more of his own familiar eloquent baritone.

"Still think you're a pirate?" John inquired as they made their way out of the bathroom like a drunken crab.

"No," came the shamed reply, "but I will. I think. This is so… ungainly."

John didn't really now what to say to that, he wasn't entirely sure whether Sherlock was referring to their combined staggering gait or his deteriorating mental state, so he helped Sherlock stumble into the kitchen where he sat him down in the chair, told him not to move, and pulled a box of medical supplies out from the back of the cupboard. It was sat behind the PG tips and one very stale and lonely looking custard cream that must have fallen out of the packet he had pilfered beforehand.

He wondered idly where that bag full of squishy once-alive-now-not-so-alive somethings had gone to, and then balefully realised he probably didn't want to know. Maybe it had crawled away, that had been known to happen from time to time.

"Mycroft?" he heard Sherlock croak from behind him,

"He was here for a bit, yeah." Said John, hesitantly, wondering how much his flatmate remembered and not wanting to cause any undue stress at the mention of his elder brother's presence. He turned to put the medical kit on the table and nearly knocked over a questionable beaker of yellow liquid in his haste to get the thermometer out. As he righted the tottering beaker, he saw a look of something unreadable cross Sherlock's face. He was still sat where John had put him, clasping his brother's umbrella in his pale fingers.

"You threatened him with that, you know. His own umbrella." Said John.

"Good." Said Sherlock, accepting the thermometer under his tongue without complaint for once. It seemed as though Sherlock had had enough of being a Privateer for one day and was most likely running through his mind palace right now, if his clouded over gaze was anything to go by, snapping away his sentimental memories and childhood snippets behind heavy doors and complex locking mechanisms. It looked like he didn't want a repeat of whatever the hell had happened today. He wasn't the only one.

"Don't worry," said John, taking the thermometer and holding it up to the light to better read it, "I won't tell anyone about this." Sherlock didn't answer, still holding onto the umbrella with his eyebrows furrowed as if it were somewhat puzzling to him. John supposed it was a little puzzling, he had never seen Mycroft leave his umbrella anywhere. He allowed himself a small smile. He wondered how the state of the British government would fare after this little secret came out. He usually wasn't one for blackmail, but he could make an exception. "Not about _you_ anyway… Captain Bubbles on the other hand…"

…

Sitting in his unmarked black car on the way back to his office, Mycroft felt an ominous shiver run down his spine.

His thoughts strayed to his umbrella, but for once he didn't regret leaving the personal effect back at 221b, he had a feeling that his brother needed it more than he did.

Sherlock had always placed emotional attachments on memories; when he needed comfort he would revert to a time when he had felt safe, back when they were children and he could be whatever he wanted to be, the bad guys were easily identifiable, the injuries easily treated by a soft kiss from mummy. His mind palace was the prime example of this; a safe haven where everything had its own place, memories were categorised for easy access, and the precious things that made him who he was, good and bad and terribly detailed, could be preserved.

Mycroft was different, he had always formed attachments to objects rather than memories themselves, a weakness which he had been working hard to break. When he wanted to feel safe he would swing his favourite umbrella in a low arc and look at his well-polished shoes, perhaps drink some of his favourite tea from his favourite tea cup, or maybe even take the small fabric brush out from its case and sweep the imaginary dust particles off the lapels of his favourite suit.

It was silly what comforted you, really. Ridiculous.

But Sherlock had his pirates and Mycroft had his umbrella, and that was just the way it was. Everyone was allowed their eccentricities.

Whether his brother would appreciate the gesture was another matter entirely, and he better have the good graces to give it back when he was done with it.

Mycroft sighed; he could just see his poor umbrella getting burnt in some ill-gotten experiment the next time Sherlock found one of his bugs in the curtains. He made a mental note to get someone to break into the flat and retrieve it for him at a later date.

The things he did for his little brother.

…

…

_Please review._


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